by K. Bromberg
“I don’t—”
He holds his finger against my lips and says, “Shhh.” Our eyes hold as every part of my body vibrates from his touch. “I’m not a patient man, Desi...except when it comes to things I think are worth it.”
“Reznor—”
“Tell Jeff you’re off the market.” My spine stiffens at his order. “Because you’re worth it.”
And then, of course, the aftereffects of Reznor Mayne hit me—the flutter, the swoon, and the sag—as a smile slides across his lips and he dips his chin before walking out the back door without looking back.
The man is infuriating.
Chapter Eighteen
Desi
Of course I show up to class.
The same gym. The same smell of sweat permeating the air. The same hot-ass instructor standing on the far side of the gym gently guiding women how to do what they need to do to defend themselves.
Then why do I suddenly feel completely defenseless when it comes to him?
Maybe for the same reason I’ve kept a low profile at the house for the past few days.
Because there’s something about the man that makes me think about him when I shouldn’t, want more of him when I should have already had my fill, and watch him do meaningless things outside his house when I have a ton of things to do myself.
Whew.
Get over there, Des. Quit standing and staring and wanting him when you keep telling yourself you don’t.
“Ms. Whitman?”
Reznor’s voice calling me from across the gym breaks through my thoughts and has me immediately on the defensive. I internally roll my eyes at him.
Our gazes meet briefly. “Glad to see you’re here for today’s class.”
I snort—it’s my only defense against that damn flutter his smile causes. “I was afraid if I didn’t show that I might come home to my roof being re-shingled or something.”
But damn...him in that snug shirt...his tight ass...and the smile he flashes my way. I swear he makes the women watching our interaction’s panties wet...so, yeah, he can re-shingle my roof any damn day.
“I’ll keep that in mind. Having a backup plan is always important.” He steps toward the center of the mat and when I stand there, he lifts his eyebrows. “I require active participation, in case you forgot.”
Oh, I didn’t forget. Don’t bother giving me excuses. Just practice saying yes.
“Coming,” I mutter, but the deepening of his grin is all I need to know he heard me across the space—and exactly what I just said.
A couple of the women say hi to me as I step up to the edge of the mat and take a deep breath for Reznor-102.
“Shall we?” he asks before stepping over to me and grabbing my hand without another word.
“What?” I fight the knee-jerk reaction to yank my arm back—the one that tells me his touch is too much to bear—when just last night I woke up with my hands between my thighs again, thoughts of him in my dreams.
“I’ve been missing my sparring partner,” he says with a flash of a smile that to me says he wants to eat me alive.
Dear God.
Can everyone else see it? Or is it just me?
Because when Reznor uses me as a means to demonstrate to the rest of the ladies what to and what not to do, I have a hard time concentrating. His body is against mine—the heat of it, the feel of it, his cologne—and it’s a tactile memory of when we had sex.
Every. Single. Time.
I know he knows it too.
“So let’s run through another scenario,” Reznor says, as he instructs me to lie down on the mat. “Let’s say you’re home alone, sound asleep in your bed.” The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. “You wake up in the dark of night and there’s someone standing over you.” I clench my jaw and close my eyes momentarily as anger fires through my veins. What the fuck? “What would you do?”
Someone told him.
Not only did someone tell him, but rather than ask me about it to my face, he’s confronting me here in front of strangers. Anger. Shame. Hurt. All three reverberate through me just like the question does: Why would he do this?
Maybe because if you’re alone, he knows you’d dodge and avoid his questions like you have several times already.
“Desi?” Reznor asks, pulling me away from my thoughts and back to him. Seething is the best way to describe how I feel right now. “What would you do?” His eyes are kind when they look into mine, compassionate, and momentarily, I forget where we are and what is going on...and I want to talk to him about it.
And then I hear another class cheer over something, and the anger fires anew that he’s using this as an example to prove a point to me. That he’s exploiting my fear to make me pay attention to him.
“What would I do?” I’d freeze like a coward and not defend myself.
Heat stains my cheeks as I remember everything I didn’t do to protect myself.
“Yes,” he coaxes, clearly wary of my reaction.
“I—I don’t know.” My voice is barely a whisper as I confess my shortcomings. To him. To the class. To myself.
“That’s okay,” he says to the class, eyes still locked on mine. “That’s why we’re here—to learn what to do in this situation.”
And so he teaches us different options of how to defend ourselves after waking up in the most vulnerable of states—groggy, disoriented, flat on your back, and at a stranger’s complete mercy.
The entire time I try to engage, I try to do what he says, but my mind is so scattered. It’s remembering how I cold I felt, how every beat of my heart sounded like thunder booming in my ears, how every hair on my body was raised in terror when I woke up seeing this hulking figure there. But now I also feel fury...Reznor knows what happened.
So what? Did he take it upon himself to find out? Did he call up Sunnyville PD or buy the guys some beers at Hooligan’s Bar and ask them about quirky Desi Whitman who runs Doggy Style, nudge-nudge wink-wink, wouldn’t you like to try that with her?
My stomach churns, and I’m already determined to call Grant and have him check out Reznor to make sure he’s legitimate.
And then when class ends, as Reznor is high-fiving the ladies in the class and offering up praise, the thought hits me just as quickly as the panic that follows—what if Reznor and the man in my house were one and the same? What if I slept with...what if I really am that bad at judging a person and he is…
Oh my God. I have to get out of here.
My head spins as I rush to where my keys are. I run into a few women and mutter half-assed apologies, because I don’t slow down and I don’t want to.
I can’t breathe.
New stranger in town who coincidentally moves next door to me a few weeks after a man was in my bedroom. A new stranger walks to my back door, not my front—when no one else does—and coincidentally that’s how Grant thinks my creep gained access to my house.
Too many things. Too many thoughts. Too many—
“Desi.”
My heart races as Reznor calls my name, but my feet don’t stop as I rush out of the gym. I don’t care about the scene I’m probably causing. I don’t care who spreads what rumors about quirky Desi, because I’m used to them.
But I care about the panic attack that’s owning every single part of me right now.
“Desi. Wait!”
I’m almost to my car when Reznor reaches for my bicep. The minute he touches me, I spin around. “Get your hands off me.”
And there must be something in how I say it or on the look on my face, because Reznor takes a step back, his eyes narrowing as he stares at me.
“What’s wrong?”
“Who are you?” I ask through gritted teeth, feeling like the crazy lady I probably sound like.
“Des? What’s going on?”
“How did you know?”
He shakes his head and blinks, his expression one of utter confusion. “How did I know what?”
“About the man in my house? The scena
rio tonight. How did you know?” Tears threaten and although they don’t show, the waver of my voice says otherwise.
I see the minute it clicks—what I’m accusing him of. His eyes widen and a part-laugh, part-what-the-fuck falls from his lips as he opens them and closes them and then opens them again. “You think...Wait a minute. You’re serious, aren’t you?”
The tears well as I question myself, my thoughts—everything. Now that he’s standing in front of me, the picture of him standing over me like the other guy did isn’t melding into the same one.
“I don’t—I don’t know what I think,” I say, hating the confusion, the doubt, and the anxiety vibrating around inside me. He takes a step toward me, and I immediately retreat so my back is against the car, trapping me.
“Des, c’mon. I’m a cop for Christ’s sake. I’m not—I could never…” I hate the look on his face, the one that reflects an adult coaxing a scared child out of hiding. Me. He stares, the muscle in his jaw pulsing, and then he’s reaching for his phone in his pocket, pushes some buttons, and holds it out between us so the phone rings aloud, the speaker on. “Here. He’ll tell you.”
“Who?” I ask.
Ring.
“Grant Malone.”
“Grant?” What? How does he know Grant?
Ring.
“Yes. He knows me.”
“How? What—”
“Reznor Mayne. I knew you wouldn’t be able to stay away from me for long.” Grant’s laugh comes through the line and every part of me that was primed for flight relaxes a little. “Did you have a come to Jesus and decide Sunnyville PD is where you want to be?”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Reznor says, his smile small and his eyes locked on mine as if he’s daring me to not believe him.
“Spot’s open. Ramos needs to fill it, and I told him I’m going to recruit your ugly ass.”
“Nice try, Malone.”
“Pussy.”
“Well.” A half-laugh. “Hey, Grant, I have someone who needs you to vouch for me. That I am who I say I am.”
“You getting yourself in trouble again?”
“Old habits might die hard, brother, but this is something a little different.”
“What’s up?” Grant asks as Reznor holds the phone out to me. “Rez?”
“Grant, it’s me. Desi.” My voice breaks with the words.
“Des? Is everything okay?” Concern floods Grant’s voice.
“Yeah. Yes. I had a moment where…” I turn my back to Reznor as the tears flood my eyes and shame pushes them over the edge. “I’m fine. I was at self-defense and I had a flashback and I thought—I accused—I don’t know what I thought.”
“You thought Reznor was the perp?” There’s surprise in his voice, but also understanding.
“I told you. My head’s a mess, and I couldn’t figure out how he knew—”
“I told Rez about what happened to you. He’s a good guy, Des. He was probably trying to help you so you feel more settled about being able to take care of yourself.”
“Mm-hmm.” I don’t trust myself to talk as the anxiety gives way to mortification. The anger to shame.
“He’s one of the good ones. I promise.”
“God, I’m an idiot.” Until he responds, I’m not even sure I’ve said that out loud, but I sure as hell think it.
“No, you’re not. We live in a safe community. When something like this happens it makes you question everything—yourself, what you thought was safe, everyone around you—and it’s normal to have it rock you. I see it every day.”
“Thanks.”
“Hey, it wasn’t that long ago. It’ll get better. Then something will trigger the memory and it’ll come back. Then it will get better again.” He pauses and his voice softens. “Are you okay now?”
“Yes. Thanks. Sorry to bug you.”
The call ends, and I stand with my head hanging forward, my back to Reznor, and hate everything in this moment but him. I attempt to collect myself but know it’s no use.
I just made a complete ass out of myself.
“Look, I’m sorry,” I say as I turn around and hand him his phone, but refuse to meet his eyes. “I...you took me by surprise and then my mind started running with it and—no excuses, I fucked up.”
“Hey. Shh,” he murmurs as he reaches out and lifts my chin so I’m forced to look at him.
But the smug expression I expected to see is nowhere in sight. The sarcastic response I thought would be next is non-existent. I’m met with a soft smile and compassion flooding through those brown eyes of his.
And all I want to do is step into his arms and let him comfort me.
But that’s a scary thought for me. Needing him. Wanting to need him.
“Look, I’m sorry, Des. I didn’t mean to—”
“I don’t need to be coddled. I’m fine. He’s gone—whoever he is, and so the whole thing is over with.” I roll my eyes and try to add more conviction to my words than I really feel. “I only took the class to get Grant off my back.”
“Uh-huh,” he says with a look that tells me he’s not buying what I’m selling. “And your assumption that I was your perp had nothing to do with being scared of your own shadow.”
“Sorry.” I shake my head from his touch, and step back trying to collect my thoughts. “I need to go home. I just need…”
To trust my own judgment? To not accuse others because I’m paranoid? To settle back into my quirky world that seems to have fallen to the wayside since that night? Alone.
“Don’t go home,” he murmurs.
“It’s probably for the best.”
We stand in the waning light of the fall evening, cars coming and going out of the high school parking lot, and stare at each other, uncertainty about what’s going on here more than paramount between us.
“I want to take you somewhere.”
“Reznor—”
“Just trust me.”
“I don’t think—”
“That’s the problem, isn’t it? Thinking?” he asks with a wink and a convincing smile. “I’m not taking no for an answer.”
Ah yes, I forgot...I have to practice saying yes.
Chapter Nineteen
Desi
“What the heck?” I say through a laugh as we pull into the empty lot in Melville—the next town over. The area has been transformed with a makeshift structure taking up the most of it. Black Visqueen lines the exterior walls with caution tape as its accent. A strobe light can be seen at the entrance, as can a person dressed in a clown costume taking tickets of mostly high school-aged kids. “Reznor?” I ask as he pulls into a parking spot.
“Trust me.”
I don’t even get a chance to respond before he’s out of his truck and circling the hood to open the door for me.
“A haunted house?”
“Just trust me.”
I eye him, finding this completely bizarre, but I’m away from my house and it’s definitely something to distract me from the embarrassment of earlier. “C’mon, Desi Whitman. You know you’re curious about why I took you to a haunted house out of the blue.”
He looks adorable—the playful look in his eye, the off-kilter smile, the hand he has extended to me—and I know I won’t resist him.
“Are you hoping that I get scared and jump into your arms?” I ask as I take his hand and exit the truck. “Because if that’s the case, you’re no better than Jared Ingram, who dared me to go to one in ninth grade so he could try and make out with me.”
“Was he successful?” Reznor asks. The funny thing is, when he pulls his hand from mine as we fall into step next to each other, a part of me sags inside. The part that is rebelling against my typical policy of no contact, no semblance of dating, nothing romance-y...because who likes that gooey shit anyway?
But I sag.
Shit. First flutters. Then swooning. And now sagging.
“Des?”
“Oh. Sorry. I was thinking about sagging.”
“What?” He
barks out a laugh and mine isn’t far behind. “Sagging? Do I even want to know?”
“It’s—never mind.” I wave a hand. What else can I do tonight to make a fool of myself? But I am laughing. He’s making me laugh. That’s always a good sign. “Jared Ingram. Man, he tried, but the boy was a terrible kisser.”
“Nothing worse than that,” he says, placing a hand on my lower back as we step into the line to buy tickets.
“It’s the kiss of death,” I joke.
“Good thing you’re here with me. That’s a sign I’m not going to die the fate of poor Jared.” Reznor flashes a killer smile at me and winks before stepping up to the booth to buy our tickets.
The scent of kettle corn fills the air and the chatter of teenagers and their laughter echoes in the air around us. Muted screams of fright can be heard from the depths of the open-doored haunted house. People mill about in groups with caramel apples in hand.
But my attention turns to Reznor. To his easy charm with the woman selling tickets. To the sincerity in his smile. To the strong lines of his profile.
What are you doing here, Des? This looks like a date. It feels like a date.
But I know.
I don’t want to admit it to myself, but the man has my attention in more ways than one.
“What?” he asks when he catches me staring at him.
“I’m curious why we’re here.”
“You’ll find out soon enough,” he says cryptically as the person running the haunted house lets the next group of people enter. “We’re next.”
I take a deep breath and anticipation begins to stir to life in my veins as the group that just entered screams at something inside. I’m not a scaredy-cat by any means, but haunted houses aren’t exactly something I’d choose to go do on my own.
Don’t be a chicken.
The attendant motions for us to step forward and enter as my heart begins to pound in my chest.
“Our turn,” Reznor murmurs. He places a hand on the small of my back to usher me forward, but it does nothing to ease the sudden fear of what waits for us in the pitch-dark beyond the first corner.
“Uh-oh, you go first,” I say as I step behind him and grip his shirt on either side of his torso.
